25 Days of Swanfire Christmas!
by eleven19
Summary: Tumblr prompts for Swanfire Christmas. Because these two are soooooo adorable, I can't even. T for language, because there's a little minor swearing. Chapter titles are the prompts.
1. Putting Out Lights

"This is going to be epic," Emma beamed, stretching the last few feet of Christmas lights toward the outlet. She had spent a good three hours hammering nails and draping multicolored lights from the roof and porch, her head filled with the picturesque image of twinkling lights amidst the falling snow, outlining the house with Christmas cheer.

"Okay, you ready?" she yelled over her shoulder.

"Yeah, I've _been_ ready!" Neal called back from his position at the end of the driveway. "Come on, Em, it's freezing out here! Hurry up!"

"Drumroll, please!"

"Plug in the goddamn lights."

Emma rolled her eyes. _Scrooge_. She pulled the end of the wire toward the outlet, tightening the slack through her fingers, and…

 _No._

It was too short. By _one fucking inch,_ it was too short.

"No, no, no, no, no," she muttered, fumbling with the cord. Surely she could squeeze one measly inch out of this! It wasn't too short, it couldn't be too short! She'd spent _three hours_ on this, and it was going to be beautiful, goddamn it! It couldn't be too short! It was going to be the best-looking house in the neighborhood, a million times better than any of their stupid, soccer-mom neighbors.

"Come on!" she begged, squeezing her eyes shut as she pulled. "Come on, _please?"_ This wasn't happening—this _wasn't_ happening!

"Emma?" She heard Neal's boots crunch the snow as he trudged up the driveway. "Em, what's wrong?"

"I can't—!" Emma gritted her teeth, pulling the lights tighter. "It's too short— _NO!"_

The lights had snapped, and she fell back, holding a frayed little piece; she stared in horror at the little bits of copper and wire hanging out of the rubber.

"Emma," Neal said gently, placing his hands on her shoulders. "Hey…"

" _No…_ " She held the little piece of wire numbly in her hand, her head tingling with heartbreak and horror.

"It's okay," Neal reassured her, guiding her to a stand. "It's going to be fine."

"I broke it."

"I know."

"I spent three hours on it."

"I know."

Emma slowly turned, looking up at him with big, tear-filled eyes. "It was going to look so goddamn good, you don't even know," she whispered. "It was going to be epic."

"It _is_ epic," Neal said firmly, turning her around to prod her into the house.

"An epic failure," she said miserably.

"A valiant effort," he declared. "Santa will be pleased with you."

"But—" Emma turned back around, looking helplessly at the dangling, dead lights. "But… _lights."_

Neal looked at her for a long time; then closed his eyes, sighing reluctantly. "All right," he said, taking her hand and leading her down the porch steps. "Let's go to the store…we'll get some more lights."

"And—and you'll help me hang them up tonight?" she asked hopefully. "I want us to be the first ones on the street with our lights out, so everyone else feels like a cynical bastard compared to us."

"That's my girl," Neal said wearily. "Look at that Christmas spirit."


	2. Christmas Cards

**Thank you, SnowFairyMagicx! You're awesomeful.**

"How did we forget Christmas cards?" Emma shook her head shamefully, tugging a shopping cart out of the rack and wheeling it through the store entrance. "This is a disaster."

"It's not that bad, Em," Neal said, half-jogging to keep with her as she zoomed to the card aisle. "People don't even _read_ Christmas cards anymore."

"Yes, but they _send_ them," Emma insisted. "And everyone's going to judge us if we don't send them Christmas cards. We'll be shunned from society."

"I think you're exaggerating."

"Am I, Neal? Ask yourself—what's going to happen when we get a call after the holidays are over, and it's someone's great-aunt saying, _'Neal, Emma—oh, your card must have gotten lost in the mail, dears, because I never got one'_?" Emma pointed a decisive finger at him, steering one-handed. "I'll _tell_ you what's going to happen: we're going to have to make up this complicated backstory of why our cards got lost in the mail, and we're going to end up making a slightly different version for everyone, and sooner or later, someone's going to catch on, and BOOM! Our lives are over, we never hear the end of it, and we have to wait until every great-aunt is dead before we can celebrate Christmas again!"

"Okay—" Neal swung around and braced his hands on the front end of the cart, looking at her intently. "You're losing it now. Try taking some deep, slow breaths, okay? Watch: inhale—" he inhaled deeply, motioning for her to follow—"good, good. And now exhale…attagirl." He smiled kindly at her. "Feeling better?"

Emma took in another deep breath, raising her eyes to the ceiling. "Nope."

Neal sighed tiredly as she weaved the cart around him and continued zooming down the aisle. "This is so stupid."

"Hurry up, Neal!" Emma shouted over her shoulder. "I need you!"

"Yeah, yeah…"

Emma skidded to a halt as she reached the cards, her hawklike gaze darting through the stacks of cards, scanning the labels. "Oh, no," she whispered, her heart plummeting into her stomach. "No, no, _no…"_

"Now what?" Neal asked wearily, coming up behind her. "Santa's hat is flipped on the wrong side, and someone's grandpa is going to lose it?"

Emma whirled around, looking at him with wide, horrorstruck eyes. "They're all out. Th-they're _out_ of Christmas cards."

"What?" Neal frowned, turning his head to glance over the cards: there were no jolly Santa's, no cartoon holly and ivy, no whimsical elves giggling at Christmas shenanigans… "Well, that's okay. We can improvise."

"Improvise _?_ " Emma stared at him incredulously. " _Improvise?_ "

"Yeah," Neal shrugged, leaning over to pick up one of the _Happy Birthday_ cards. "Here, look: ' _Happy Birthday'_ —write ' _Jesus_ ' underneath that, and you got yourself a Christmas card."

Emma slowly lowered her eyes to the card in his hand. "Are you fucking kidding me right now?" she asked quietly.

"What?"

"I said, are you _fucking_ kidding me right now, Neal?" she repeated louder. "You want to send out cards that say, _'Happy Birthday, Jesus'_? Are you even—?" She shook her head in disbelief. "What is wrong with you?"

"Take it easy, okay?" Neal said, looking at her in alarm. "You're getting a little intense, Em. Maybe you should take it easy on the candy canes, the sugar's starting to have a bad effect on you."

"I can hold my candy canes," she said witheringly. "What I need right now, are some goddamn Christmas cards!" She threw the card furiously, muttering under her breath as she flipped through the stacks. "Can't believe there's not a single Christmas card in here, this is ridiculous…"

"Emma—" Neal took her arms from behind, forcing her to drop the cards she'd been feverishly rifling through. "Remember how we talked about deep, slow breaths?"

"I don't have time for deep, slow breaths, Neal!" she said in ringing tones. "We have a Christmas card fiasco on our hands! And I know that sounds like a comedic problem, but it's not, Neal! It's not!"

"I have one word for you that's going to make this all go away," Neal soothed over her frantic ramblings, gently guiding her away. " _E-cards._ "

Emma stopped in her tracks, slowly lifting her head. "E-cards," she breathed. "Of course…"

"There." Neal released her arms, and took her hand. "Now, let's go get a coffee or something, and when we get home…we are throwing out the rest of your candy canes."


	3. Snuggling

**Thank you to all my reviewers! You're all awesome. Stay awesome. Here's some more Swanfire cuteness.**

"Okay…."

Neal glanced over as Emma walked gingerly into the room, balancing two steaming cups filled to the brim in her hands.

"Hot, hot, hot," she winced, setting them down on the coffee table. "Fingers burning—fingers burning—"

" _So,_ " Neal said, shifting over on the couch as she sat down, still waving her hands to cool them off. "What do we got going here?"

"Cocoa," she said promptly, and blew on her fingers. "Give it a minute to cool."

" _Cocoa?_ " Neal eyed it dubiously, and leaned forward to study it. "What's in it?"

Emma didn't answer; she turned to him with a big smile on her face, putting an arm around his neck. "So, how would you feel about snuggling right now?"

Neal raised his eyebrows. "I'm sorry?"

"Snuggling. To snuggle. To act in a snugglery manner. You wanna?"

"Uh—sure?"

"Great." Emma slid her arm off him and braced her hands on his shoulders to reposition him on the couch. "Just sit…like _so._ Good, good. Here, prop the pillow there. Now put your arm over there, so I can lean against— _no,_ Neal, over _there…_ "

He fumbled with Emma's instructions, feeling rather like a puppet whose strings she was tugging insistently. "Okay—Em, you're managing to make snuggling stressful now, just sit down."

Emma raised her eyes to the ceiling as if he were being completely unreasonable. "Fine," she sighed. "If you want to be _that_ guy…"

"I'll live," Neal said wryly.

Emma shrugged, and leaned forward to take the cups; she twisted slowly in her seat and handed one to him, the cocoa threatening to spill over the edges.

"Am I allowed to move my arm—?"

"Yes, you can move your arm" she said exasperatedly.

Neal bit back his smile, and took the cup. It was a difficult exchange, both concentrating deeply on switching the balance from Emma's hand to Neal's, all the while trying to avoid burning their fingers or letting any cocoa trickle down the sides. But with some deft finger movements and telepathic instructions, they managed.

"Okay," Emma said, carefully shifting in her seat to position herself against him. Neal inhaled sharply as she shifted a little too vigorously and nearly upset his cup.

"Be careful."

"I'm being careful."

"Watch, it's going to—! _Gah!"_ Neal yelped as cocoa slopped out of the cup and burned his leg. He exhaled through clenched teeth, shutting his eyes tightly.

Emma gave him a guilty smile. "Sorry."

"It's okay," he sighed. "Christmas isn't Christmas 'til we spill cocoa on Neal's jeans."

"Mmm, you know how I feel about Christmas traditions," Emma said, settling back to position herself in proper snuggling formation. "You sure you're okay?"

"Looks like you've already decided I am," Neal said, looking down at the top of her head. He glanced over at his cup, eyeing the rest of his cocoa warily. "Seriously, before I drink this—did you put stuff in it again?"

"It's cocoa, Neal. It's really not that complicated."

"Snuggling isn't supposed to be complicated, either," he pointed out.

"Just drink your cocoa."

Neal sniffed it, and frowned. "You put cinnamon in it."

"You _like_ cinnamon."

"Yeah, when it's where it _belongs._ Like, on top of a _roll."_ Neal took a tentative sip of his cocoa, and made a face, shaking his head profusely. "Okay, that's disgusting."

"You are _ruining_ the snuggling experience right now," she told him. "Stop complaining about cocoa and murmur gently in my hair or something."

" _Murmur gently in your hair?_ "

"Or something."

"What am I supposed to murmur about?"

"I don't know…How much you love me?"

"Why do I have to murmur it? Can't I just talk like a normal person?"

Emma made an exasperated noise. "Murmuring is the appropriate form of communication when snuggling," she explained.

"When did snuggling get so many rules?" Neal asked the ceiling. "Here, give me these—"

"My cocoa!" she protested as he gently removed her cup from her hand to set down on the table. "Neal…"

"Get this pillow out of here—"

Emma tried to catch the pillow as he tossed it away.

"And then—" Neal fidgeted, sitting in a more comfortable position: one arm draped around her shoulders, the other propping up his head on the armrest. "There. Snuggling achieved."

Emma furrowed her brow, looking around herself as if trying to find some fault. "Well, it's…it's not _entirely_ uncomfortable, I'll give you that," she said grudgingly.

"Oh, well, thank you so much."

She shifted a little more, considering. "Yes," she decided. "Yes, this will do." She turned her head and beamed up at him, patting his head affectionately. "You're a natural snuggler. That's adorable."

"And _you_ are an adorable control freak."

"Oh, I know," she said contentedly, closing her eyes. "I know."


	4. Wrapping Presents

Neal looked around at the circle of still-waiting-to-be-wrapped presents surrounding him and Emma, a feeling of doom sinking into his stomach. Emma was hard at work, snatching sheets of her overly-festive wrapping paper, slapping on bows and labels, scribbling, _Merry Christmas from Neal and Emma!_ with Sharpie before tossing the present over her shoulder and into the pile. She seemed to have an efficient system, a one-man assembly line, that he was rather reluctant to disturb.

"Come on, Neal," she said around the candy cane in her mouth. "Help me."

"You sure? You look like you've got a thing going here…"

"No, no, no, no, come on," she urged.

"But you're going to get mad at me for…I don't know, putting the bow on the wrong corner or something."

Emma exhaled, closing her eyes. "I promise I won't get mad at you," she said. "I just want to get this done, okay?"

Neal raised a skeptical eyebrow. "For reals?"

"For reals."

"Okay," he shrugged, and reached for a box, twirling it through his fingers. "If you're sure."

"I'm sure, I'm sure," she said, the candy cane rattling against her teeth. "Just get some paper and wrap it."

Neal stretched across to pick up the first reachable spool of wrapping paper: silvery snowmen with little red scarves. "All righty," he said, rubbing his hands together. "Let's do this."

Emma looked over and wrinkled her nose. "Oh, don't use _that_ wrapping paper. Not for my mom."

Neal frowned. "Excuse me?"

"Don't use that wrapping paper for my mom," she repeated, reaching over and taking it away. "Here, use the holly berries—it's _much_ classier."

He looked at the roll of paper she held out to him, feeling his shoulders tense. _And here we go. "_ Didn't realize we had to customize it to fit everyone's personalities," he said, taking it from her hand. "I mean, it's not like they're just going to rip it up anyway…Oh, wait a minute…"

Emma looked up, baring her teeth in a tight smile. "Neal… _sweetie…"_

Neal cringed. _Sweetie._ That was never a good sign.

"I really, really, _really_ need to get this done. So could you just—?" Emma waved her hand, shrugging. "I don't know, leave the sarcasm at home and wrap the goddamn present?"

" _Wow._ That got ugly fast."

"Yeah, so did your mom."

"Okay, _stop—"_ Neal reached over and tugged the candy cane out of her mouth, ignoring her protests—"eating these, Em. The sugar does something to your brain, you get _way_ too intense about stuff."

"It's festive. I must have it."

"Have a piece of fruit."

"What the hell kind of childhood did you have, if you think fruit is festive?"

Neal held it out of her reach as she lunged for it. "It's for your own good," he soothed over her frustrated muttering. "And while you're at it, I think you should cut back on the Christmas cookies, too."

"But people keep sending them!" she argued. "And it's the only time of year you can eat Christmas cookies! Eating them in January is just _wrong._ "

"You don't have to eat every cookie they send you," Neal said, shaking his head. "It's too much sugar."

"It's not sugar, it's Christmas spirit!"

"Fine, whatever. Stop eating so much Christmas spirit."

Emma glowered at him, but went back to present-wrapping without another word. Neal eyed her suspiciously as he tossed the candy cane in the garbage bag.

"You don't have another one in your pocket, do you?"

"No."

"No hiding places? No secret drawers?"

"No, and no."

"Okay." Neal lifted his chin, considering her. "Okay, I believe you."

"Well, that just thrills me."

"What I don't believe is this." Neal frowned down at a box by his knee; he picked it up, twirling it around to show Emma. "What the hell is this thing?"

Emma glanced up from her label. "Oh, that?" she said, capping her Sharpie. "It's a pasta maker. I got it for your dad."

"Pasta maker?" he repeated dubiously. "But—he doesn't even _eat_ pasta."

"He doesn't eat it _now,_ " she said reasonably. "Probably because he doesn't have a decent pasta maker."

"And what about this?" Neal picked up another box, shaking his head bewilderedly. "What _is_ this?"

"Panini maker," she shrugged.

"What?"

"A _panini maker,_ " she enunciated. "I got it for _my_ dad."

Neal stared at her. "I didn't know he had a passion for making panini's."

"He doesn't, but he will," Emma assured him. "It's impossible not to fall in love with that panini maker. I mean, just look at all the buttons it comes with. It has to be good."

"What, did you get everyone kitchen appliances? Whatever happened to pretentious sweaters and ties they're never going to wear?"

"Okay, sweetie, you know what?" Emma reached over, stretching a piece of tape over his mouth and patting it a few times to make it stick. "You talk too much. You're making Christmas exhausting."

Neal raised his eyebrows and widened his eyes in disbelief, pointing to himself.

"Yes, you," Emma nodded, then let out a weary sigh. "In fact, I'm so exhausted, I think I'm going to need another sugar high to wake me up. Where did I put the rest of those candy canes…?"


	5. Finding the Tree

"This is it."

"What's—? _No,_ Emma."

"Neal. You don't understand. This is _it._ "

Emma's eyes were big and sparkling and full of wonder as she stared up at the tall, majestic evergreen, her mouth slightly open. Neal closed his eyes, putting his fingers to the bridge of his nose: it killed him to have to do this, but…oh, come on, she couldn't be _serious?_

"I must have it," she breathed.

"It's too big for the living room," Neal said exasperatedly, dropping his hands. "Look, I agreed to get a real tree, but _you_ agreed to be reasonable about it."

"But _Neal…_ " Emma turned to him pleadingly, tugging the collar of his coat. "Please? For me?"

Neal sighed. "Em…"

"Don't you love me?"

"Yes, but I'm not sure the ceiling feels the same way," he said seriously. "Just pick out a nice, small tree, and then we can go." He stamped his feet, wincing as another little gust of wind blew icy sprinkles of snow in his hair. "But make it quick, it's really cold."

Emma gave the tree one last, longing look. "All right," she sighed, taking his hand. "Let's go."

Neal pointed out several as they went up and down the lines of tree, flinging his arm out at _this_ one or _that_ one, or whichever one would get them in the car faster so he and the feeling in his toes could get reacquainted. Emma found something wrong with all of them: her heart was still with the first tree, the majestic freak of nature that was too tall for their ceiling.

"How about we get a little one?" Neal suggested, pointing to a baby evergreen that barely came up to his knee.

Emma wrinkled her nose. "It's a dwarf."

"So is Tyrion Lannister. What's your point?"

"My point is, I don't want a little tree," she said impatiently. "There's barely any space for decorating. And how are we going to fit any presents under it?"

"I might be able to fit a _very tiny box_ under it," Neal said enticingly. "Hint, hint, wink, wink?"

Emma frowned. "No, no, no, we're not doing that on Christmas," she said, shaking her head. "I don't have time to get excited about that and Christmas at the same time. Save it for a boring time of year, so I have something to look forward to."

"Whatever you say," he said, rolling his eyes.

"Besides, I want you to ask me in a nice restaurant," she went on, dragging him away from the tiny tree. "We might get a free meal out of it, you know? And everyone will applaud us, and we'll feel like gods. It'll be great."

"Well, that really is the whole point." Neal shivered against another icy gust of wind. "You know, maybe we should just get a fake one. They're easier to take care of, and we can buy it inside a store. As in, not outside freezing to death."

"A fake tree has no personality," she protested. "They're all manufacture to perfection. I want a _naturally_ perfect tree."

"Right. A naturally perfect tree. So you can dress it up in tinsel and lights, to show off its _natural_ beauty. Hey, here's an idea—why don't we skip all that, and just look for a tree that grows its own ornaments?"

"Oh, my God, you're such a Scrooge!" she said exasperatedly. "Where's your goddamn Christmas spirit?"

"It got frostbite and fell off about an hour ago, along with half my toes."

"Okay, _fine,_ " she droned; then whirled around pointing a finger at him. "But if we get a fake Christmas tree, you have to wear a Santa hat when we decorate it."

Neal made a face. "Do I _have_ to?"

"Yes."

"Ugh."

 **Ermagod, these two...**


	6. Decorating the Tree

"Hang on, hang on, hang on—!" Emma yanked a Santa hat over his head, and let out a delighted laugh, clapping her hands. "Oh, my God, you look adorable! Hang on, I have to get a picture—"

" _No,"_ Neal said, sweeping his arms. "No pictures."

" _Yes_ pictures!" She scampered off to find her phone, which was lost somewhere amongst the tinsel and lights and boxes of ornaments. Neal looked miserably at the fake tree, which had cost him so dearly.

"Okay!" Emma raised her phone, closing one eye as she focused it. "Say 'Merry Christmas'!"

"No."

"Say 'Bah, humbug'!"

"What does that even mean?"

"It means, 'smile, so I can take the goddamn picture'."

Neal lifted the corners of his mouth in a patronizing smile; Emma snapped the picture, the flash briefly blinding him. He rubbed his eyes, blinking them back into focus.

"Okay," Emma said decisively, sliding her phone in her back pocket. "Time to decorate."

She bent down, rummaging through the piles of random decorations scattered through the living room. Most of the pieces didn't even match: there wasn't a set of blue bulbs or red bulbs, there weren't matching little stars or candy canes; it was a mismatched, patchwork jumble of random pieces that Emma had picked up in the _mall_ or in that _little store_ they had walked by on a whim or in that hotel where they stayed for their last vacation. Neal remembered offering to help her pick out a nice, regular pattern, but Emma had point-blank refused.

"Christmas trees should hold memories!" she had insisted. "What kind of memories come prepackaged and say, 'Made in China'?"

"We could get prepackaged memories from Taiwan, if you want."

She had thrown up her hands, utterly exasperated by his lack of sentimentality, and complained that he was ruining Christmas. Personally, Neal felt that was a little harsh, but what did he know? Emma was the Christmas expert, not him.

"Oh, God…"

"What's wrong?" Neal made his way through the piles, lifting his feet and sidestepping bundles of tinsel and boxes of thrift-store bulbs. "Did you find a dead mouse in the box or something?"

Emma slowly turned around, holding a cord of Christmas lights in her hands. Neal stopped, looking at them grimly. The painful memory of Emma's Christmas-lights-failure was still too fresh, too deep, for them to forget. So many hours, so many nails—and so few centimeters away from plugging them in before they snapped, crushing Emma's heart in the process.

"Okay," Neal said gently, easing them out of her hands. "Don't look, Em, okay? I'll take care of the lights."

"Lights," she said numbly, staring down at her empty hands. "My lights."

"It's fine," Neal reassured her, dropping the lights to give her a hug. "I got the lights. You just worry about your ugly decorations, okay?"

"They're not ugly," she objected, pulling away to give him a stern look. "They're sentimental."

Neal smiled tightly. "Okay. Whatever. And that guy who lives three houses down, with the big nose and acne problem—he's not ugly; he's _sentimental._ "

"You are ruining Christmas, you know that?" Emma swooped down to grab the lights, and plopped them in his hands. "Go, make my tree pretty."

"Only if you promise to undo all my efforts right after," Neal said seriously, nodding toward her decorations.

"Fine. I promise. By the way, Neal?"

"Hmm?"

"Your _mom's_ sentimental."

"Yeah, yeah…"

Because Emma insisted on playing Christmas music while they decorated, Neal found himself trapped in a customized-to-torture-Neal-Cassidy circle of hell: Mariah Carey wailed while Emma tried to sing along, all while he was trying to concentrate on tangling lights through the stiff, prickly branches; _then,_ Emma decided that she had to deeply consider where to place _every single fucking bulb_ on the tree, shifting the same one from branch to branch, and asking him his opinion.

"What do you think if I put it here?"

"It's ugly."

"What about if I put it _here?_ "

"It's still ugly."

By the time they got to the tinsel, they were just randomly tossing it around, not even paying attention to whether or not it actually landed on the tree. And when it came time for the star, Emma unceremoniously plunked it on the top branch. " _There_."

They stood back, folding their arms and tilting their heads as they considered what had to be the ugliest fucking tree anyone had ever seen. It was messy, with clashing colors and obnoxious lights, and the star looked though it was trying to escape the hideousness, tilting precariously on the branch.

"Wow," Emma said in awe. "We kinda suck at this."

"Yeah."

"I mean…this is _ugly._ "

Neal shrugged. "It's sentimental."


	7. Mistletoe

They crunched their cereal in silence: every so often, a spoon would clang against the bowl or milk would splash out, but other than that, it was silent. This was morning cereal: a time for deep thinking and pondering of the soul. Frosted Flakes elicited the same sort of wisdom that came to Tibetan monks perched on mountaintops.

"Question," Emma said through a mouthful of cereal, pointing her spoon at him. "Does a mistletoe have to hang from a doorframe to be considered a mistletoe?"

Neal paused in his chewing, taking a minute to think. "I think that's the most traditional place to hang one, but so long as it's attached to some kind of wall and over the head, I think it's valid."

"Hmm," Emma murmured, nodding thoughtfully.

"But of course, the validity only extends from Black Friday to New Year's Day," Neal went on. "Once the holidays are officially over, the mistletoe loses its influence."

"Thanksgiving Day, too," Emma argued. "It's part of the holidays. It's the other bookend, the reciprocal of New Year's Day."

Neal furrowed his brow, tapping the spoon against the table. "All right, I'll allow it," he said finally.

"I wonder who started it all?" Emma wondered, looking up at the ceiling as if hoping to see a diagram. "You think it was just some perv trying to get girls to kiss him, or is there a legit reason behind it?"

"Hang on, I'll look it up," Neal said, laying down his spoon and sliding his phone out of his pocket. His fingers worked the keyboard, typing rapidly. " _Origin…of… mistletoe,_ " he muttered as he typed in each word. Emma got up from her seat and crouched down beside him; Neal tilted the screen so they could squint at it together.

"Let's see…" Neal scrolled down the page. " _'Many ancient cultures prized mistletoe for its healing properties. The Greeks were known to use it as a cure for everything from menstrual cramps to spleen disorders—'"_

"What even is a spleen?"

"Good question. Hang on, I'm going to open a new tab." Neal thumbed the keyboard, and skimmed the first article summary. "Looks like it gets rid of blood cells and stuff…something about the immune system."

"Huh." Emma raised her eyebrows, nodding. "Nice."

"Back to mistletoe stuff, or are we bored of that?"

"No, no, I want to hear," she urged. "Go back to the first one."

"All right." He cleared his throat. "T _he Roman naturalist Pliny the Elder noted it could be used as a balm against epilepsy, ulcers and poisons—"_

 _"_ Very romantic. Epilepsy's hot."

"Oh, you're an interesting person. Anyways…. _'The plant's romantic overtones most likely started with the Celtic Druids…_ blah, blah, blah… _'could blossom even during the frozen winter'…'sacred symbol of vivacity'…_ There's some Norse myth thingy where Odin's son is dying and his mom made a deal with all the plants and animals, but…what?" Neal frowned, squinting at the tiny print. " _But Frigg neglected to consult with the unassuming mistletoe—"_

 _"_ The unassuming mistletoe?" Emma repeated skeptically.

"Yeah, this is some weird shit," Neal said, shaking his head as he scrolled through the rest of the entry. "And then, England started up this thing where guys could randomly kiss girls under the mistletoe, and if she pushed him off, it was bad luck."

"Why do I feel like a guy made that rule up?"

"Sexual harassment was the haps, back then," he shrugged.

"That's kind of creepy," Emma said, easing herself into a stand. "Kind of ruins the whole mistletoe thing, doesn't it?"

"I never found it all that charming, to be honest," Neal said, stowing his phone away.

"Yeah, I got you," she said, going back to her cereal. "It's the same thing with drinking eggnog. I mean, I _hate_ eggnog. But I drink it every year, 'cause it's Christmas. Even though I hate it."

"And setting out cookies for Santa," Neal said enthusiastically. "It's just a stupid tradition, right? You have to put out milk and cookies and _carrots_ for the reindeer, because God forbid the reindeer feel a little peckish. And then the milk sours, the cookies are all stale, but you have to pretend that _Santa ate it,_ even when everyone knows it was your parents. God, I _hated_ doing that, growing up. It was so stupid. Am I right?"

Emma frowned, crunching her cereal. "What,'s wrong with Santa noshing on a little something between houses?" she said. "He goes around to a billion million trillion houses a night, he's going to need a snack here and there."

"Yeah, but—" Neal stared at her. "You _do_ know there's not actually a Santa Claus, right, Em?"

She gave him the biggest _Bitch, please_ look he'd ever seen. "Yeah, I _know._ I'm just saying, it's different when you're a kid. You worry about him."

"Right." Neal dropped his eyes to his cereal. "You worry about him."

Emma let out a disbelieving laugh. "What, you never worried about Santa? Not even when you were six, and still had a soul?"

"I never _believed_ in Santa."

She stared at him. "You never believed in Santa?" she said in a hushed tone. "Oh, my God, that's…that's so sad."

"Not really," he shrugged.

"That's why you're so cynical," she said with dawning comprehension. "You never _learned._ "

"Actually, Emma, I'm just not into the whole—" he waved his hand—"you know, public-display-of-emotion-thing."

"No _wonder_ you're such a Scrooge," she said sympathetically. "Oh, _Neal."_

She came over, wrapping a comforting arm around his shoulder; Neal frowned down at it, slowly swiveling his gaze to her sad eyes.

"I'm going to help you," she said solemnly. "I am going to ambush you with so much Christmas spirit, your head's going to explode."

"Gross."

"All over the place. Because I'm going to _blow your mind._ "

"Hmm."

"And I'm gonna cure that Scrooge-itis you have," she promised, tapping him on the nose with her finger. "You're going to be a changed man, Neal Cassidy."

"Whatever."

"That's the spirit!"


	8. Building Snowmen

"How can you not know how to build a snowman?" Emma asked in disbelief, dropping her candy cane. It shattered on the floor, send little shards of red-and-white candy every, but she hardly noticed. "Do you realize, you have the perfect backstory for a super villain? You hate Christmas spirit, you don't like hot chocolate, and now you've never built a snowman? Jesus Christ, man!"

"I don't get excited about stuff, Em," he shrugged, bending down to brush the candy dust into a pile. "You know that."

"Stop cleaning up," Emma said exasperatedly, tugging him up by the arm.

"There's a mess," he said, confused. "Why would I stop cleaning up?"

"Because you need to be a little—" Emma waved her hands impatiently, searching for words. "You need to be more _fun,_ Neal. Break the rules, live loose…build a snowman."

Neal raised his eyebrows. "And what is that supposed to accomplish? Building a snowman?"

Emma smiled hopefully, widening her eyes. "Making me happy?"

"Ooh—" he sucked in a breath, clicking his teeth. "Tempting, but I'm gonna say 'no'. I have way more important things to do today: counting the pieces of lint on the carpet, watching paint dry…also, I really need to find out how many licks it takes to get to the center of a Tootsie-pop, I mean—the suspense is _killing_ me."

Emma took his hand in both of hers, tucking it pleadingly under her chin. " _Please?_ " she said, blinking big, green eyes at him. "Don't you love me?"

Neal frowned, trying to tug his hand away. "Didn't you already try to pull this one on me, when we were finding the tree?"

Emma cocked her head. "I did?"

"Yeah. It didn't work then, either."

"Okay, well—" Emma dropped his hand, bracing hers threateningly on his shoulder. "Maybe the 'cute' approach isn't going to work on you, but you better tell me what will, because you are going to build a goddamn snowman with me. Why? Because it's fucking adorable, and we're the most adorable couple in the entire galaxy. Says who? Me. And I also say, that we're building a snowman, you're going to like it, and then we're going to be adorable and snuggle noses or some shit like that because that's what you fucking do at Christmas when you're adorable. _Capisce?"_

"I caspisce," he said humbly.

"Good boy," Emma beamed, landing a kiss on his cheek. "Let's go."

Emma seemed to have a very clear idea what she was doing, when it came to snowman-building. She ordered him to work straightaway, telling him to start the base.

"You have to give it a good amount of space," she explained, drawing lines in the snow to show him. "It needs to be a strong base to support the head and body. Just keep packing snow until I say it's enough."

For something that was supposed to be a whimsical activity, there was certainly a lot of barking orders and calculations, and fear (on Neal's part). Emma was a tyrant: at one point, she actually used the phrase, "Put your back into it!"; at another, he could have _sworn_ she slipped into German.

"All right, enough!" he said finally, throwing down a handful of snow. "Stop bossing me around, Emma! You are taking this _way_ too seriously."

"We're having fun," she frowned. "And that base isn't finished yet."

Neal glared at her with half-lidded eyes. "It's plenty finished."

"Is that so?" Emma raised her eyebrows, putting her hands on her hips. "Well, if you know so much, why don't you just build your own snowman, hmm? You don't need me, you're so _learned_ in the art of snowman-building."

"What, you think I can't build a snowman on my own?" Neal scoffed. "I'll build a snowman. My snowman could make your snowman cry like a little bitch. Yeah, that's right!" he said at Emma's gasp. "I called him a snowbitch!"

"Well!" Emma glared at him, furiously throwing her scarf over her shoulder. "We'll just see about _that!"_

 _"_ Fine!"

"Fine!"

 _"Fine!"_

They worked tirelessly, packing snow and rolling snow and building it up; they kept stealing glances to check the other's progress, secretly hoping that there would be a weak spot in the base and the whole thing would come tumbling down. But both were too skilled for that: Emma had built many a snowman in her day, and Neal could do anything he decided he needed to win—provided it required little to no effort, and didn't interfere with his cable schedule. Building snowman gladiators with his girlfriend fit the description well enough, although he was putting a great deal more effort into it than anyone over the age of twelve should. But then, so was Emma.

"Okay," she said finally, jamming a carrot in her snowbitch's head. "Are you done?"

"Almost—" Neal unraveled his scarf and wrapped around his snowman. He stepped back, giving it a look of appraisal. "Yeah…Yeah, I'm done."

Emma glanced derisively at his snowman, and threw her head back with a laugh. "Please," she snorted. "That is so pathetic, I can't even."

"Yours isn't anything special," Neal frowned.

"Better than yours."

"Are you _high?_ " Neal shook his head, laughing incredulously. "Your snowman is my snowman's prison wife."

Emma's eyes widened with rage. "Oh, _REALLY?_ " She stomped, snow flying from the impact of her boots, right up to his snowman—

"No!" Neal shouted, realizing too late what she was doing. "Emma, don't!"

In one swift motion, she knocked the head off, slammed her foot into the base, and punched out the center of the middle. Neal's snowman crumbled to the ground, a sad little pile of snow.

Well, of course he had to retaliate. He didn't waste a second grieving; he walked right up to Emma's snowman and tackled it to the ground, smashing it all in one decisive movement. Emma gasped, clapping her hands over her mouth while Neal slowly stood up, brushing off snow. He turned his head to look at her, suddenly feeling guilty for the look of distress on her face.

"Okay," he said quietly. "That got a little too intense there. On both sides."

Emma nodded, silently agreeing.

"I'm thinking…we leave the snowman-building to the neighborhood kids." Neal walked over to her, keeping his eyes down. "I don't want snowman-resentment to come between us, Em. I think we need to avoid building another snowman for the rest of our lives. Agreed?"

"Agreed," she whispered.

"Okay." He tentatively took her hand to lead her back inside. "We'll just pretend this didn't happen."

"We'll never speak of it again."

"Mostly because it's really embarrassing how immature we are."

"I think you mean 'adorable', but whatever."


	9. Ugly Christmas Jumpers

Neal whistled as he walked through the door, dropping his briefcase on the armchair and swiping the mail off the table as he passed it. He flipped through it, still whistling, as he wandered down the hall to the kitchen. _Bill…bill…bi—ooh,magazine! Ugh, it's just Pottery Barn._

"Hey, Em?" he called, not looking up as he pushed his way through the door. "Why do we keep getting shit from Pottery Barn? I thought we unsubscribed."

He looked up when she didn't answer, frowning when he realized she was staring into a box, her hands still resting on the flaps. "Em?"

"Hmm?" she said numbly, her eyes fixed on the box.

"What are you doing?"

"My mom…She sent us an early Christmas gift."

"Nice." Neal grinned, coming around to look over her shoulder. "Is it a toaster?"

"Not exactly," she said quietly, and stepped to the side so he could see.

Neal's smile faded as his eyes found the knitted green-and-red bundle of cloth inside. "Oh, God…it isn't—?"

"It is." Emma closed her eyes, wrapping her arms around his neck and burying her face in his shoulder to shield herself from the horror. "Oh, Neal."

"Shh," he soothed, unable to tear his eyes away. "Don't cry, Emma."

"What if she makes us wear them?" she choked.

"She won't," he said, holding her tighter. "I won't let her. I'll never let her."

Emma pulled away, looking at him in anguish. "She'll hit us with everything she's got," she whispered. "Guilt trips, tears… _tsking in disapproval._ "

"You have to be brave." Neal lifted her chin, looking deeply into her eyes. "Don't let her intimidate you."

"I'm not that strong."

"You _are._ "

"No. I'm not, actually."

"Yes, you are—"

"Neal, please," she said in a pained voice, holding up a hand. "We both know I'm not." She looked at him mournfully, and said softly, "Neither of us are."

Neal closed his eyes, hanging his head. She was right, he knew she was: both of them would crumble under Mary Margaret's wrath. The woman was a Master Guilt-Tripper; so masterful, in fact, that Neal suspected there was a secret society of Old Country grandmothers who taught the finesse of guilt and sweetly-spoken manipulation to the next generation. Mary Margaret must have been a prodigy, because no one could resist her. No one was safe.

 _But how could he let her do this to Emma?_

"No."

"No?" Emma looked alarmed as Neal strode forward and grasped the box with both hands. "What are you doing?"

Neal glared into the box so fiercely, he could have sent the Christmas sweaters aflame, just by the sheer force of his gaze. "I don't care how many hours it took her to knit them," he growled. "I don't care how many kinds of yarn she bought. I don't care if she back-stitched or front-stitched or cross-stitched or whatever."

He ripped them out of the box, eliciting a gasp from Emma. He turned around, holding them high in his fist.

"This sweater is so hideous, it makes Jesus cry!" he said in ringing tones. "Every time she made a stitch, an angel lost its wings! The only way to truly destroy this evil is to drop it into the fiery pits of Mordor!"

Emma stared at him in wonderment as he turned, grabbing the boxcutter still laying on the counter.

"As such, this will have to do," he said gravely, holding it up.

Emma clapped her hands over her mouth, looking at him with wide eyes. Neal gripped the boxcutter in his hand, swallowing hard—

"Neal, wait—"

 _RIP!_

He made a vicious slash at the cloth, tattering it instantly. Emma let out a little scream, biting her knuckles as he grimly finished the job: he pulled the sweaters apart with both hands, tore at them until they were nothing more than sad little piles of frayed yarn.

It slid from his hands, dropping to his feet. For a moment, they both stared at it, hardly breathing. Emma slowly lifted her head and looked at him, her expression full of love and gratitude.

"You're my hero," she whispered, stepping toward him. "That was incredible."

Neal caught her as she flung her arms around his neck, hugging him tightly. "It's over, Em," he murmured against her. "We won."

"I love you," she said in a muffled voice. "I love you so much right now, Neal Cassidy, you don't even know."

"I love you, too." He pulled away from her, bracing his hands on her shoulders and looking at her intently. "Stay here. I'm going to go down to the post office, and demand they stop sending us Pottery Barn catalogues."

"Wow," she breathed. "That's hot."

"I know."

He swept away, his fists swinging determinedly. He opened the door with a flourish, and turned around, meeting her gaze.

"See you around."

Emma nodded breathlessly. "Give 'em hell for me, Neal," she said. "Give 'em hell."


	10. Frosting Cookies

"I think they're done."

"…Just a tad."

Emma tilted her head, considering the extra-crispy cutout cookies. They weren't… _so_ bad, were they? Sure, that reindeer looked a little toasty…that snowman a little charred…that Christmas tree looked like it was going to crumble to ash any second, but in a very _tasteful_ way, she was sure.

Neal slowly lifted his hand and patted her shoulder. "I'm sorry, Em," he said gently.

Oh, goddamn it.

 _Did I put too much flour? Not enough flour? Yeast, was I supposed to put in yeast?_ Emma rubbed her forehead anxiously, trying to remember the recipe she'd used. She'd gotten it off the Internet (the recipe book her mother gave her had been used to kill a particularly large spider, and she'd forced Neal to burn it lest the spider guts should seep into her skin and poison her), but she couldn't remember anything else.

Maybe she'd just left them in the oven too long.

She sighed heavily, looking at her overcooked cookies. She'd used up all her dough, it wasn't like she could make another batch. "That stupid neighborhood party is tomorrow," she said miserably. "I'm not going to have time to run to the store _and_ bake another couple rounds _and_ frost them all. What the hell am I supposed to do?"

Neal furrowed his brow, twitching his mouth to the side thoughtfully. "You know," he said after a time. "It's not like anyone's going to know they're _your_ cookies…" He picked one up and held it to the light, studying it. "They're not falling apart, either."

Emma looked up at him, raising her eyebrows. "You sound like a man with a plan."

"Frosting is a marvelous invention," he mused, turning the cookie between his fingers. "You know, if you put enough frosting on something…"

She leaned forward, watching him intently. "I'm listening."

"No one really has to _know_ they're burnt, do they?" He looked over his shoulder, raising an eyebrow. "I won't tell if you won't."

Emma nodded, a smile slowly crawling on her face. "I'll get the frosting."

"There you go."

Forty butter knives. One bowl of frosting. No partridge, no pear tree: just the two of them working side by side to ladle as much frosting as possible onto the burnt cookies, so none of their dumbfuck neighbors would be any the wiser.

"You know what would be kind of cute?" Emma remarked, spreading a glob of white frosting onto a blackened snowman. "If I whimsically put frosting on your nose."

"Resist the whimsy."

"Or if we had one of those cute little food fights you always see couples on T.V. have," she went on. "I throw flour at you, you crack an egg in my hair, we splatter brownie batter over each other. And somehow, that always turns into a big romantic scene and we kiss and realize that the other is what we've been looking for our entire lives…"

"That would make a mess in the kitchen," he pointed out. "I'm not going to crack eggs and shit, and then just _leave_ it there. It would drive me nuts."

Emma closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. "Do you always have to be so—?"

"Normal?"

" _Reasonable?_ I mean, can't you ever have a little fun?"

Neal looked over at her, frowning defensively. "I have _fun._ "

"I can barely get you to wear a Santa hat during Christmas," she scoffed. "You're a Scrooge. All year round."

"I'm frosting Christmas cookies as we speak."

" _No,_ you're using them as a chance to pull one over the neighbors because you have a sick fascination with getting away with stuff like that."

Neal snorted to himself, tossing his cookie onto the drying sheet. "It's so funny, though."

"Not really."

He shrugged. "It's a little funny."

"Okay, yes, it's a _little_ funny," she said grudgingly. "But not so funny that it's enough. You're severely lacking in whimsy, Neal."

"Hey come on," he complained. "I built a snowman, I decorated a Christmas tree…I wrapped presents with bows and ribbons, didn't I?"

"But I had to _drag_ the whimsy out of you," Emma said exasperatedly. "You should be _volunteering_ whimsy. It's supposed to just bubble out of you—like me." She gave him a winning smile, flourishing her hands. "See?"

Neal stared back with half-lidded eyes, unimpressed. "I'll stick with the scroogeing, thanks." He turned back to frosting his cookies. "You know where whimsy gets you, Em? Eating too many candy canes and having a meltdown over Christmas cards. Oppressing me under a Nazi-like regime, just to wrap a few presents. Building _snow gladiators_ because you can't stand the thought of someone beating you at Christmas stuff."

"I won," Emma said instantly. "My snowman was a million, thousand times better than yours."

"We agreed to never speak of it again," Neal reminded her.

"Right. Sorry."

"It's okay."

"But I feel like I have to double up on the whimsy, to make up for both of us," she said pleadingly. "Be a little crazy with me, huh?"

"I wore a _Santa hat_ the other day," Neal said, staring at her. "How much more crazy do you want?"

Emma narrowed her eyes, pointing a frosting-battered knife at him. "You have no soul, Scrooge Cassidy," she said, and bopped the frosting to his nose. "No. Soul."

Neal crossed his eyes, glowering at the frosting on the tip of his nose. "What did I say about the frosting?"

Emma smiled, dolloping another scoop of frosting in his hair. "That if you put enough frosting on something…."


	11. Snagging by the Fireplace

Neal yawned as he twisted the handle and bumped his shoulder against the door, instantly letting his bag drop to the floor. It was late—probably close to midnight—and the house was completely dark, other than the Christmas lights outside and the fireplace in the family.

 _Damn it, Emma,_ he thought wearily, trudging over to turn it off. She _always_ fell asleep with it on—she was going to set the whole house on fire, one of these days.

"Gotta stop doing this, Em," he muttered, running his hand over the wall to find the switch. "How many times do I have to—?"

"Neal?"

 _"Jesus!"_ Neal yelped, putting a hand to his heart. He turned around wildly, staring at her with wide eyes. "Emma, you scared the hell out of me."

Emma smiled vacantly, stretching her arms. "I was waiting for you," she slurred. "You're late."

"Yeah, I know. I had a thing…" Neal trailed off, only just now taking in her outfit. "Why are you dressed like a hooker?"

"I'm not a hooker." Emma gestured vaguely to her ensemble: a very short red, satiny dress with white faux fur attached to the hem. "I'm a _festive_ hooker."

Neal raised an eyebrow. "Yeah…look at that."

"It's sexy Mrs. Claus!" she said delightedly, struggling to stand up. "I was going to have _'Santa Baby'_ playing, but I couldn't find the— _whoa!"_

Neal caught her as she staggered on her wobbly legs. "Okay, you are _drunk,_ " he said, his voice strained. "Come on, stand up—stand up…there you go."

Emma laughed softly against him, hanging off his neck. "Kiss me, I'm Irish."

"No, you're not."

"Kiss me, I'm not Irish."

"You gotta get to bed, Em. Come on, walk—"

"Kiss me, I'm not Irish!" she insisted.

"All right." Neal dropped a kiss on her forehead. "Now, come on—I'm too tired to pick you up, you gotta walk."

"Nah, man, _nah,_ " Emma complained, pushing away from him. "I had the fireplace going, I had the wine, I was working the sexy-Mrs.-Claus thing…and you want to go sleep?"

Neal looked at her wearily. "Look, Em, it's been a long day, okay? I'm exhausted, you're exhausted…and not gonna lie, the Mrs.-Claus-thing kinda freaks me out."

Emma looked down at herself, and back up, crinkling her brow. "How does this freak you out?"

"Mrs. Claus is, like…you know, like someone's grandma or something." Neal wrinkled his nose, shaking his head. "It's too weird."

Emma scoffed, holding her arms out and angling her body awkwardly. "Are you saying you think you can resist _this?_ " she asked, wobbling slightly.

Neal rubbed his eyes tiredly, sighing. "Maybe tomorrow, okay?"

"But—wait—" Emma turned around, rummaging through the couch cushions. She fished something out and whirled around triumphantly, holding it high over her head. "Look! Mistletoe."

"That's not mistletoe, that's a car air freshener," he said exasperatedly.

"Mistletoe!" she insisted, tottering toward him. "Come on, Neal!"

Neal caught her a second time as she fell against him, one arm wrapped tightly around his neck, the other raised as she dangled the air freshener over them.

"Come on," she urged. "I had the whole thing all set up. Don't bail on me, man."

Neal struggled to support her as her legs gave way. "Honestly, Em, you're so drunk right now, I feel like it would be borderline date rape at this point."

"I'm not drunk, you're drunk," she grumbled.

"Okay," he sighed, walking backwards to drag her toward the stairs. Emma started to hum _"Santa Baby"_ under her breath, scrabbling as she struggled to place her feet in front of each other.

" _Santa Baby…_ something something…. _I've been an awful good girl, Santa Baby…_ something sexy and I don't know the rest…"

"Very nice. Lift your foot."

Emma squinted at the floor, trying to match her foot to the stair. "Why does it keep moving?" she frowned.

"What, your foot?"

"The _floor._ "

Neal looked at her for a long time; then up the stairs; then back at Emma. She raised her eyebrows, following his gaze as he considered the stairs again.

"I don't know if we're going to make it all the way up there," she said in a loud whisper.

"Yeah, I think you're right."

"Couch?"

"Gonna have to."

"Come with me?"

"If you want."

"How's that for irony?" she yawned, smiling as he half-carried, half-dragged her back to the couch. "You said you were too tired to sleep with me tonight."

"Cheap shot, Em. I award you no points for that joke."

"I'm drunk off my ass, dude, what do you want?"


	12. Holiday Movie Nightmare

Emma frowned through her reading glasses as she skimmed the list, tapping her pencil against her lips. Absently, she repositioned her pillow, nearly elbowing Neal in the face.

"Emma—" he said in annoyance, tossing his head. "Watch, okay?"

"Mmm," she agreed, scrawling something on her paper. She looked up as Neal switched on the T.V. "Dude—" she hit him in the shoulder—"what are you doing? I'm working here."

Neal glanced over at her paper, and snorted. "You're not working," he said, turning his eyes back to the screen. "It's just a bunch of Christmas shit."

Emma whipped off her glasses, glaring at him furiously." _Christmas shit?_ " she hissed. "Did you just say that to me? Really?"

Neal closed his eyes exasperatedly. "Deep breath, Emma."

"I am _trying_ to spread some goddamn peace on earth and goodwill to all men, here," she snapped. "Do you mind?"

"I'll lower it."

" _Thank you._ "

Neal lowered the volume, then started flipping through channels, looking for anything that wasn't Christmas-related. Between Emma's insane holiday fever, their aren't-we-such-a-perfect-American-family neighbors, and every store and street corner her walked through, he was being suffocated by Christmas. He'd learned to disdain it as a kid, having been brought up on a steady diet of cynicism and emotional repression; but as he grew older, his disdain grew into what Emma called, "the Ebenezer Complex" or more simply, "scroogeism". Strange, that the modern Scrooge could fall for the Queen of Christmas…but then again, they'd met in the summer; and during the rest of the year, they really were a lovely couple.

It was just this stupid Christmas shit, that got in the way.

"Why does every single channel have to have a goddamn Christmas movie on it?" Neal said through gritted teeth, furiously pointing the remote. "Is _nothing_ else on? Seriously? My options are 'Rudolph, the Red-Nosed Asshole' and 'Santa Claus is Coming to Town for the Thousandth Fucking Time'?"

"'Wizard of Oz' is on TMC," Emma said absently, still poring over her list. "You could watch that."

"No, I can't," Neal said, shaking his head. "I'm terrified of that movie."

Emma laid down her pencil, giving him an incredulous look. "You're terrified of _'The Wizard of Oz'?"_

"Fucking Munchkins, man," he shuddered.

"Wow."

"They're creepy," he said defensively. "They're like little Chucky dolls trained in musical theater."

She smiled kindly at him. "Would you like something to take your mind off them?"

"Yes, please."

"Great! I'll read you my list!"

"What? No, Em, come on!" he complained laying back against the pillows. "I don't want to hear the list—"

"It's a good idea," she insisted. "Neal, the neighbors _hate_ us, okay? And most of the time, I'm fine with that, but during _Christmas_?" She shook her head. "Uh-uh. _No._ Not okay."

"I don't have a problem with it."

"That's because you're dead inside. Now—" she cleared her throat, snapping out her paper with a flourish. " _'The following are a list of Christmas activities designed to endear us to the neighbors through bonding and holiday cheer'_." She started counting off on her fingers. "Number one: attending every Christmas party we get invited to, or eavesdrop on someone getting invited—"

"No."

"Number two: entering the neighborhood's friendly lights competition—"

"No."

"Number three: snowball fight with the neighborhood children—"

"No."

"Okay, you can't say 'no' to every single one!" she said, throwing down her list.

"It's a stupid idea, Em," he argued. "Doing stuff like this with the neighbors isn't going to make them like us, it's probably just going to make them hate us more."

Emma closed her eyes, clenching her teeth. "I have been working on this list for an hour, and _now_ you tell it's a stupid idea?"

"I told you it was a stupid idea an hour ago, too," he shrugged.

She narrowed her eyes, glowering at him. "I'm going to bed," she growled, turning on her side. "Have fun watching your Christmas movies. And I hope you get terrorized by Munchkins in your dreams."

"Oh, come on, don't get mad. Emma?" Neal touched her shoulder, shaking her a little. "Em?"

"Hands off, Cassidy, or I'll mace you."

He lifted his hands in surrender, letting out a low whistle. So much for Christmas cheer.

He spent the next few hours flipping miserably through Christmas movies, occasionally landing on "The Wizard of Oz _"_ ; he could only manage five minutes at a time of any movie, but it hardly mattered. They were all the same: sparkling snow bullshit, Santa popping up like a stalker and spreading Christmas magic (which was usually some bad CGI blue sparkles), and little children giggling as they opened presents that _parents didn't buy, so who could have brought them?_

 _"_ Spoilers!" Neal gasped mockingly. "It's fucking _Santa!_ A _gain!"_

Somewhere between " A Princess for Christmas" and "Snowglobe", he drifted off to sleep. The next morning, he would realize that watching Christmas movies before going to bed really _really_ late was the worst thing he could do for his mental health, including being locked in a basement for forty days and nights without food or water. Because the nightmares that plagued him that night was shit that only crawled out of horror movies.

There were snowmen gladiators, brandishing thick swords and shields, chasing him down in an arena as a snow-lion was set loose from its cage and charged at him; he turned and fled, trying to outrun the snow-lion with its Christmas wreath mane and jingle-belled tail! He ran and ran, his lungs nearly giving out, until he found refuge in a forest…of Christmas trees. The neon lights burned his eyes, blinding him, and then the trees came to life and started throwing their ornaments at him! _"Goddamn it, it's just like those creepy-ass apple trees in 'The Wizard of Oz'_!" his dream-self said in horror. And suddenly, the forest was invaded by Christmas-themed Oz references! The flying monkeys, all with red glowing noses—Santa's giant head demanding he bring him the Wicked Witch of the East (because she was on the Naughty List)—visions of dancing sugar plums, singing, " _We represent the Lollipop Guild! The Lollipop Guild! The Lollipop Guild—!"_

"Not the Munchkins!" Neal gasped, sitting bolt upright.

He looked around the dark bedroom wildly, half-expecting to see the Munchkin-sugar-plums crawling out from under his bed. But no…there was nothing…he was safe.

Emma stirred, sleepily lifting her head."You okay?" she yawned, reaching out to pat his shoulder, but instead splaying her hand in his face.

"Mmm—" Neal pulled her hand away—"yeah, I'm fine. Just had a bad dream."

"Oh," she slurred sleepily, her arm going slack. "Is that you were shouting about Munchkins."

"Yeah," he said, casting his gaze around the room again for good measure: still no Munchkins (he breathed in relief). "I'm good, though."

Slowly, he eased himself back down, staring at the ceiling with wide eyes. The Christmas nightmare still hovered in his mind, threatening big-head Santa's and snowmen soldiers and pirouetting-Munchkin-plums.

Goddamn, he hated Christmas.


	13. Christmas Music

"Look what _I_ found…"

Neal looked up, internally groaning as his eyes landed on the guitar Emma had dug out of the basement. Despite his best efforts to hide it under all the random clutter they'd gathered over time, she'd managed to find it. And—being Emma, the Christmas Fiend—she'd slung a string of holly berries around it.

"What are you doing with that?" he asked wearily as she sat down beside him, balancing it on her knee. "You don't even know how to play guitar."

"No, but you do," she said cheerfully. "You can teach me."

"I don't even _remember_ how to play guitar."

"Sure, you do. It's like riding a bike."

"No, it's like playing a guitar. And I don't remember how to do it."

Emma scoffed, sliding her eyes to the side. "Of course, you do."

"I really don't."

"Sure you do!" She immediately dropped it into his lap, and positioned his hands on the guitar. "There…one hand on those stringy things, the other one on the skinny end. Now all you have to do is be musically talented." Emma smiled expectantly, folding her hands. "Go ahead."

Neal looked down at the guitar, giving an exasperated scoff. "What do you want me to do?"

"Play something. Play me a Christmas song. Neal!" she gasped, clutching his arm excitedly. " _Play me a Christmas song."_

If it was anyone other than Emma, he'd've demanded that they leave his home, because he didn't tolerate so much Stupid in that proximity: _Neal,_ play a _Christmas_ song?

But it _was_ Emma. And her eyes were so big and pleading, so hopeful, so filled with Christmas magic…She clung to him so desperately, whispering, " _Oh please, please, please, please?"_ And then the killing blow: _"Don't you love me?_ "

He closed his eyes, sighing. _Goddamn it. "_ I'll try."

There was _one_ Christmas song he knew…It was the least offensive one of the lot, the only one that he found remotely bearable (most of them made him grind his teeth and look for a wall to smash his head against). But there was that one little song that he could stomach. He frowned, trying to place his fingers to the right chords.

"I don't know all the words," he warned Emma, plucking out the intro. "I'm probably going to start making shit up in the middle of it."

"That's fine," she beamed, giving a little shrug.

" _Don't want a lot for Christmas…there's just one thing I need…_ hmmm, hmm, hmm-hmm…something 'bout a Christmas tree—" he glanced at their hideously-decorated Christmas tree. "Something 'bout an _ugly_ Christmas tree…"

Emma flicked her eyes upward derisively, but didn't interrupt.

" _I just want you here tonight—_ not in the creepy Mrs.-Claus-lingerie," he sang, holding back a laugh as she huffed impatiently. " _What more can I do? All I want for Christmas is…_ for Emma to please stop trying to force Christmas spirit down my throat."

"All right, all right," Emma said irritably, moving to take the guitar away from him; but Neal turned away, still singing. He was actually starting to enjoy himself now, ad-libbing all the lyrics.

" _Won't ask for much this Christmas, I won't even wish for snow—'_ cause Emma's going to force me to make snow gladiators with her. _I just wanna keep on waiting, underneath the mistletoe—_ which Freya found to be unreasonable and creepy English guys used to sexually harass women…And then, some other lines that I don't know…" He strummed the guitar with a little more gusto, humming over the missing lyrics. " _All the lights are shining, so brightly everywhere—_ because this time we measured to make sure they could reach the outlet. _And the sound of children's laughter fill the air—"_

"Because they're laughing at Neal's frosting cookies, because he thinks that extra frosting is somehow a punishment," Emma sang loudly and extremely off-key. Neal winced as her voice blared in his ears, but he kept going.

" _And everyone is singing—I hear those sleigh bells ringing—Santa, won't you bring me the one I really love, won't you please bring my baby to me?_ Don't even think about it," he said instantly as Emma's eyes lit up at the word "baby".

She opened her mouth, probably ready to pull the _Don't-you-love-me?-_ schtick again, but Neal quickly sang over her before he ended up agreeing to a baby.

" _I just want you for my own, more than you could ever know—make my wish come true…All I want for Christmas is you!_ And the end!" he declared, giving a final flourish of the guitar strings. "Boy, that was fun, huh? Now, why don't you go put this away—" he lifted the guitar into her hands, giving her a tight smile—"and I'll go find something else to do?"

"Neal, wait—"

"Sorry, Em!" he called over his shoulder, walking away quickly. "I'm extremely busy, we'll have to almost talk and change the subject later!"


	14. Snowball Fight

"You know something?" Emma bumped Neal with her elbow. "If I wasn't a grown-ass lady, I'd pick up a handful of snow right now and stuff it down the back of your shirt."

Neal was silent for a moment, his boots kicking up small flurries of snow as they trudged through it. "I'd have to retaliate," he decided. "You can't just get away with shit like that."

"What would you do?"

"I'd stuff snow in your hat, and pull it down over your head."

Emma shrugged. "I'd steal your scarf."

"Fine. I'd steal your gloves."

"I'd push you right into that big pile of snow."

"I'd take you down with me."

Emma suddenly swooped down, gathering a pile of snow with two hands, and held it over his head. "Merry Christmas, Neal," she said.

He gasped as he was hit with an icy shower of snow, soaking his hair and seeping through his coat. " _Emma…"_

"I was experiencing spontaneity," she grinned. "White Christmas, snow…it seemed like a good moment."

"What happened to being a grown-ass lady?" he asked through chattering teeth.

"Oh, that—" she scoffed, batting her hand. "Come on, Neal. When have I ever cared about that?"

Neal stared at her, still breathing raggedly. "You know what I have to do now?"

"I know," she said cheerfully. "I'm ready."

Neal brushed the snow off his shoulders in two decisive movements, walking toward her slowly. Emma flinched as he swiped her hat and bent down to drag it through the snow. Solemnly, he straightened back up.

"You brought this on yourself," he told her, and pulled it down over her head. Emma inhaled sharply at the icy shock, cringing as the snow melted into her hair and dripped under her collar. Neal stood back, brushing snow off his gloves grimly.

Emma exhaled through her teeth."I'm going to get you back for that."

"I'd like to see you try," he said quietly.

She nodded. "You will."

Without warning, she shot forward, tackling him into the snow. Neal yelped as he hit the ground, immediately trying to scrabble away as Emma stuffed snow down the back of his coat.

He grabbed a fistful of snow and flung it in her face; Emma gasped, trying to rub it out of her eyes. Neal took advantage of her distraction, and stumbled away: half-tripping, half-running, kicking up snow behind him. Emma pushed her sopping hair to the side, looking around wildly for Neal—

 _"Gah!_ Damn you, Cassidy!" she hollered as he shot a snowball to her face.

Neal ducked as she aimed a snowball at him. "You suck, Emma!" he shouted. "You _suck!"_

"Oh, really?" she muttered, gathering another snowball in her hands. "We'll see about that, won't we?"

Neal emerged from the bush he'd taken shelter behind, raising another snowball. "I _dare_ you," he said, seeing the massive snowball in her hands as she stepped toward him. "Emma—no, don't—!"

Emma launched the snow at him, dousing him in an arctic blast; Neal shivered violently, his voice coming out in little frozen squeaks. A gust of wind riffled through their hair, stinging their already pinkened faces.

"Oh, goddamn it," Emma gasped, squeezing her eyes shut. "That's cold."

"Y-y-yeah, it is," Neal agreed, trembling. "C-c-can we g-go home now?"


	15. The Sniffles

Neal shuffled over the couch with two steaming cups of tea in hand, peeking out from under the blanket he'd draped over himself like a cloak. "Tea," he said, handing one to Emma.

"Thanks," she shivered, sticking her hands out of her own blanket to take it. Neal gathered up the end of blanket-cloak and sat down beside her.

"Cheers," he said, clinking his cup against hers.

The snowball fight had seemed equally whimsical and bloodthirsty at the same time, but neither of them had anticipated the stuffy-nosed-red-eyed hell they were going through now. _Other_ people got sick from being outside too long; but not Neal and Emma. Never Neal and Emma.

Yet here they were: shivering together on the couch, pathetically huddling over their little teacups to keep warm. Tissues that they'd been too sick to pick up after missing the garbage can lay scattered on the floor. The fireplace had been turned on, but it did nothing to ease the chill in their bones.

"My head hurts so much," Emma groaned, her eyes fluttering drowsily.

"Mine hurts more."

"Nuh-uh."

"Yeah-huh," he scoffed. "And my throat hurts more."

"Are we seriously arguing about who's sicker?" Emma said blearily. "I don't know if I have the energy for this."

"You're right." Neal took a sip of his tea. "Let's never have another snow battle again. It just ends badly."

"We get too competitive," Emma sighed.

"And immature."

"I wouldn't call it _immature…_ " She trailed off as he gave her an incredulous look. "What?"

"Pushing each other down and shoving snow down their collar isn't immature?"

"No. It's—" she waved her hand—"keeping the spirit of youth."

"' _Keeping the spirit of youth'?_ " Neal raised his eyebrows skeptically. "That's what you're going with?"

Emma chose to avoid answering by taking a sip from her cup. "I hate tea," she said quietly.

"It's good when you're sick," Neal said, swirling the contents of his cup appreciatively. "Warms you up from the inside out."

"So does hot cocoa with cinnamon."

"That stuff is nasty."

"No, it isn't. It's delicious."

"You don't put cinnamon on cocoa. You just don't. It's _wrong._ "

"It's medicinal," Emma declared. "Far superior than this—" she gestured distastefully at her cup—"this _tea_ nonsense!"

Neal closed his eyes exasperatedly. "Do you want me to make you hot cocoa with cinnamon?"

"No, I'm just saying," she shrugged. "Don't go out of your way. You're sick, too."

"Yeah, I am," he yawned, setting his cup down on the coffee table. "I kinda just want to sleep…I'm exhausted."

"We didn't do anything today," Emma pointed out.

"Nuh-uh," Neal murmured, shifting to lean his head against her shoulder. "We watched all those bad Christmas movies…"

"There wasn't even a sarcastic commentary, though. We put no effort into it, whatsoever."

"Em?" Neal reached up blindly, splaying his hand over her mouth. "Can't sleep with all the talky."

"I'd sleep better with hot cocoa and cinnamon," Emma said, forlornly looking at the contents of her cup. "I think I'm going to make some—"

"No, no, no," Neal protested as she rose in her seat. "You can't move, I'm too comfortable."

"I'll be back in ten minutes."

"I don't want to be comfortable in ten minutes, I want to be comfortable _now._ "

"Ten minutes," Emma promised, affectionately scrubbing his hair.

" _Stay…_ " he groaned, holding her back to keep her from standing up. "Emma…Five minutes, and I'll fall asleep, okay?"

She was silent for a moment. "Neal…"

Neal tensed, waiting for her impatient comment about his insensitivity to her cocoa needs.

"…that is so _cute."_

He blinked. "What?"

"You need me stay so you can fall asleep?" Emma dropped a kiss on his head, beaming at him. "You're such a snuggler! I'm literally dying from how cute you are now! Like, I can't even! I can't even with how cute you are!"

"Oh," Neal said, somewhat baffled. "Well, okay, then."

"Of course, I'll _stay,_ " Emma laughed, hugging him tightly. "Damn you, Cassidy, you adorable little weirdo, you!"

"Weirdo…? Me, really? I'm the weirdo?"

"You think hot cocoa with cinnamon is disgusting," she scoffed, as if that was a reasonable explanation. "I mean, really."


	16. DAY 25, CHRISTMAS DAY!

**Life got in the way, so I never got around to finishing these...Hopefully, this makes up for it. Me** **rry Christmas!**

"Wake up, Neal!"

Neal jerked awake as a pillow swung at his head: Emma stood over him, her hair disheveled, her eyes wide and excited as she beamed down at him. "What?" he asked blearily, rubbing his eyes as he sat up. "What happened?"

"It's Christmas!" she squealed, jumping up and down. "And it snowed!"

"Oh…." Neal groaned. "It's too early for this, Em…"

"It's Christmas! There's presents! There's snow! There's music—!"

"Okay, but is there coffee?" he yawned, lifting his legs out of bed.

"Coffee!" Emma stopped jumping, and pointed a decisive finger at him. "I'll go make coffee! You get ready, I'll make coffee!"

"Don't run!" Neal called after her as she raced out of the room. "Emma?"

"I'm not— _whoa!"_ A crash, the sound of a body colliding with a floor; a pause, and then a weary: "I'm okay…"

He heard her bare feet pad against the kitchen floor (more cautiously now), and then a minute later, the sounds of cups clinking, the coffee grinding whirring, and the all-Christmas station blasting as Emma tried to sing along with it. Neal winced, shutting the door to block the noise: Emma really had a terrible voice.

December twenty-fifth…the most exciting, magical, awe-inspiring day of the year for Emma Swan. Her Christmas spirit was ridiculously enthusiastic and occasionally frightening, with her insistence on Christmas traditions and bloodthirsty snow battles; the Santa hats, the festive lingerie, the ugly Christmas sweaters; finding the perfect Christmas tree, and failing miserably to do it justice; the lights twinkling until they shorted out and zapped little sparks everywhere; the cookies being burnt to a crisp and remedied with liberal amounts of sugar and icing (just the way they liked it); her begging him to play her a Christmas song, and getting indignant when he changed the lyrics…

Ah, Christmas.

Neal smiled as he walked into the kitchen, seeing Emma kneeling on the counter and rummaging through the cupboard for her festive Christmas mugs. The smell of freshly brewed coffee wafted through the air, which did _wonders_ for his Christmas spirit.

"Here—" Emma hopped off the counter and hand him a mug. "Hurry up, pour yourself a cup and come sit by the tree with me."

"Mmm-hmm."

"And then we can unwrap presents!" she said feverishly, clutching his arm. "Oh, my God, I'm so excited for you to see what I got you! It's so perfect, I can't! Like, I should win an award! In fact, you know what?" She snapped her fingers. "I just did it! I just gave myself an award! Because I've earned it, you're going to _love_ it!"

She let out another little squeal, pulling him into a tight hug and kissing his cheek before scampering away, singing at the top of her lungs with Mariah Carey, " _All I want for Christmas is YOUUUUUUU!"_ Neal took a minute to prepare his coffee and take a few nice, long sips before he followed her to the family room, where the hideous Christmas tree waited with a small pile of gifts underneath it. Emma was already sitting cross-legged beside it, drumming her hands on the floor.

"Come on!" she said excitedly. "Sit down, sit down!"

"I'm sitting," he assured her, carefully setting his cup on the coffee table as he lowered himself to a seat beside her. He glanced up at the tree, slightly shaking his head. "I just can't get over how ugly this tree is."

"Never mind that," Emma said, tugging a Santa hat over her head. Neal looked at her warily.

"I'm not wearing one of those," he warned her.

"I know," she shrugged, and pulled out a red-and-green scarf, which she started wrapping around his neck. "You're wearing this—not another word," she said sternly, pointing at him. "You're going to be Christmasy today, whether you like it or not."

 _"_ I'm not going to give you any trouble, don't worry," Neal said, straightening the scarf around his neck. "Okay, so—" he rubbed his hands together—"where's this amazing present that you deserve an award for?"

"Unwrap the boring ones first," Emma said, tossing him a gift (which felt suspiciously like a sweater). "This one—and this one—this one, too."

"You've got a couple, too," Neal said, nodding at a few similarly wrapped packages.

"Beautiful. Let's do this."

They tore into the paper at the same time, ripping it apart with relish and tossing it careless over their shoulders.

"Sweater—"

"—sweater—"

"—another sweater—"

"—me, too—"

"—funny shirt, I like the cartoon—"

"—wow, I'm going to be one classy bitch in this." Emma turned to Neal with a smile, giving him a one-armed hug. "I needed a classy-bitch-shirt. You know me so well."

"There's another one," he said, nodding at the tree. "It's in the branches."

"In the—? _Neal,_ " she said exasperatedly, her eyes falling on the little back velvet ring box. "Again? This is the fifth year in a row!"

"Yeah, I know, and it's starting to get annoying," he said, carefully folding his new sweaters into a neat stack. "Hey, by the way, I don't have a speech prepared this year, because I figured you know the drill by this point, so…"

"I thought I told you to wait until after Christmas," Emma sighed, digging out the ring box. "Remember? I said, wait until a boring time of year—"

"You say that every year," Neal said, raising his voice over hers. "And then you say, ' _Oh, come on, Neal, let's talk about this later',_ and you get distracted by something shiny and I don't remember again until Christmas."

Emma looked at him for a long time, furrowing her brow. "You really want to do this?" she said finally.

Neal shrugged, folding the sleeves across his second sweater. Emma let out an exasperated breath.

"All right, _fine,_ " she said, tossing him the box. "Put the damn thing on my finger."

"Hang on, let me finish folding these."

Emma rolled her eyes as Neal laid the second sweater on top of the first, and picked up the last shirt. He hummed along with the radio as he shook it out, turned the sleeves in…fold it once, twice, pat and smooth… There.

"Okay," he said, taking the box from her. "Gimme your hand."

Emma obediently held out her hand, waiting patiently as he slid the ring onto her finger; she raised her eyebrows as he released her hand. "All done?" she asked, glancing down at it."Oh, it's pretty."

"Yeah, I know."

Emma turned her hand in the light, tilting her head as she considered it. "Hmph," she said approvingly; and abruptly stood up. "Okay, I'm going to go get your present."

"Okay," Neal said as she scampered away, twisting around to start gathering up the crumpled wrapping paper. It crunched in his hands as he smushed it together, crinkling as he built a small pile in his arms—

" _Rrruff!"_

Neal froze, the paper dropping to the floor; he stared with wide eyes as Emma walked back into the room with a huge smile on her face, leading a tiny white-and-brown dog by a leash.

A dog.

A _dog?_

 _"_ Merry Christmas, Neal," she beamed, and added (rather unnecessarily), "It's a dog."

"But…." Neal blinked rapidly, and looked at her in disbelief. "But you said, 'no dogs'."

Emma shrugged, kneeling down to scratch the dog behind the ears. "He's really cute, though. Look at his fuzziness."

Neal walked over slowly, staring openmouthed at the little dog; he bent down, joining Emma in the ear-scratching and marveling.

"He's a Jack Russell terrier," Emma said proudly. "There was this guy giving them away outside the store a few days ago, 'cause he didn't want to keep the puppies, so I figured…what the hell?"

"Does he have a name?" Neal asked, smiling as the dog lifted his nose in the air to sniff their hands.

"I've just been calling him 'Dog'," she shrugged.

"Are you very attached to that name?"

"I can negotiate." Emma tilted her head, studying the dog. "Did you have something in mind?"

"Charlie," Neal grinned. "I want to name him 'Charlie'."

"No, not 'Charlie'," she complained. "That's what I wanted to name our first kid."

"Charlie," he said decisively, scooping up the dog. "Hey, buddy…oh, look at how cute you are! Yes, you are! _Yes, you are!"_

He turned to Emma, cuddling Charlie in his arms so they could both look at her with puppy-dog eyes. "Tell me he's not a 'Charlie'. Look at this face and tell me he's not a 'Charlie'."

Emma covered her eyes with her hands. " _Neal…_ " she whined. "Don't do this to me."

"Em…" he said pitifully, stepping closer. " _Don't you love me?"_

 _"_ Yeah, but—"

"Please? Please? Please—?"

"Neal—"

" _Please? Please? Please—?"_

 _"_ Neal—"

"And I'll tell you what else—you can name the first kid whatever else you want," he promised.

Emma perked up. "I can?"

"Mmm-hmm."

"Anything?"

"Anything," he nodded.

"Anything I want…." Emma rubbed her chin musingly, staring off into space. "I like 'Henry'," she said after a time.

"' _Henry_ '," he repeated.

"Yeah…" Emma nodded slowly. "Yeah, I like 'Henry'."

Neal considered it for a minute, looking up at the ceiling; and shrugged. "All right, fine, 'Henry'," he agreed. "That's a solid name."

"You like it?"

"Sure."

"Really?"

"Yeah, it's all right."

Emma beamed. "So, did you have a good Christmas after all? Even with all the lights and burnt cookies and snow wars?"

Neal looked over at Emma, seeing the ring twinkle on her finger; looked down at Charlie, who was wriggling enthusiastically in his arms. "Yeah, it was okay," he shrugged. "I've had worse."

Emma held out her hand, smiling at her ring. "You know what?" she said, tilting her head. "I know I wasn't totally on board with it before…but I think I'm really going to enjoy planning this wedding."

The smile faded off Neal's face. Christmas was bad enough, but Emma planning a _wedding?_

"God help us, Charlie," he muttered to the dog. "God. Help. Us."


	17. Chapter 17

Snow fell lightly from the sky, covering the world below in a powdery white blanket. The street lamps beamed a soft, warm light as couples strolled down the sidewalk and carolers sang in the distance, the line of houses twinkling with Christmas lights…

 _Zap!_

 _"_ Ow! _Goddamn it!"_

Except one house.

Neal exhaled, watching from the end of the driveway as Emma fumbled around with her Christmas lights, her violent cursing breaking the tranquility of the night. Henry, sitting on top of Neal's shoulders, barely flinched as the something heavy crashed and Emma screeched, "Son of a _bitch!"_

Neal closed his eyes. _Every year…_

"I'm cold, " Henry shivered. "How much longer?"

"Hard to say." Neal turned his head to glance up at the six-year-old on his shoulders. "Just give it a little more time, okay, buddy? You know how important this is to your mom."

"But how much _longer?_ " Henry complained, his voice muffled against Neal's hair. "I'm really cold, Dad."

"I know, but—"

"Oh, come on!" Emma shouted, kicking something with the heel of her boot. "Stupid—son of a— _ugh!"_

"Da- _a-ad…_ " Henry groaned.

"Five more minutes, okay? I'm sure she'll have it all figured…" Neal trailed off, seeing the sleek black car pulling into the driveway next door. _Oh. Great. That's just fucking great._

Of _course_ , Regina and Killian would come home the exact moment Emma set off another round of crashes, and screamed louder than any caroler within earshot, " _SHIT!"_

"Oh, dear," Killian said in a clearly audible voice, holding the door open as his wife stepped out of the car. "Regina, look at that. The neighbors are trying to blow the place up again."

"Didn't they do that last year?"

"And the year before that one, too…You'd think they'd gotten tired of it, by now." Killian cleared his throat. "Oi, Cassidy!" he called, raising his voice as though he hadn't intended for Neal to hear everything he'd just said. "You ever consider hiring a few professionals to do that for you?"

Neal forced a laugh, not looking over. "That's all right, I think we can manage." (Emma yelped as the lights zapped her again.) "Besides, it kinda takes the magic out of it when you pay someone to handle your Christmas spirit, doesn't it?"

Regina let out a derisive laugh. "Since when does Scrooge Cassidy care about Christmas magic?"

"What?" Neal twisted his head to look at her. "'Scrooge Cassidy', what? I-is that a thing? Do people call me that?"

"I mean…" Regina exchanged a look with Killian, who seemed as though he were trying very hard not to smile. Neal stared between the two of them, his mouth falling open indignantly as he read the answer in their expressions.

 _Seriously?_ It was one thing when Emma called him that, but the _neighborhood?_ What did he do that was so terrible, huh? So he wasn't nuts about the carolers, so what? And who had _time_ to attend all the snowman competitions and Nativity plays and the block party that _no one_ liked? And really, how many Christmas-cookie- and Secret-Santa-exchanges could one person handle?

Like Regina and Killian had any room to talk: their perfect, _professional_ white Christmas lights and showing-up-for-appearances-attitudes were worse than his Scrooge-ness, because at least Neal got _involved_ in the Christmas spirit. He didn't have a choice, not when he was married to Emma Swan, Christmas Fiend and Destroyer of Lights/ General Electric Devices.

Regina and Killian were _fake_ Christmas-ers, they didn't get into the wild disasters and insanity that made the season! The burnt cookies, the hideous trees, the screaming at carolers when it was " _eleven o'clock, for the love of God, shut up and go home, already!_ " Neal lived and breathed as much Christmas as was humanely possible, and those probably-Armani-suit-or-whatever-wearing idiots had absolutely _no_ right to judge him!

"Dad, it's been five minutes," Henry said, tugging his hair. "Can we go now? I'm cold."

"Looks like you better get that boy inside," Killian advised, Regina murmuring in agreement.

"You know what?" Neal swung Henry off his shoulders, and dropped to one knee to look at him. "Go tell your mom to bring you in for hot chocolate or something, okay?"

Henry whirled around as Emma hurled a round of lights at the wall, and turned back with a worried expression. "But what about—?"

" _I_ will take care of the lights," Neal cut in. "Just go tell her, okay?"

Henry nodded, and set off at a run. Neal stood up, brushing snow off his knees as he watched Henry clamber up to Emma: he moved his hands around as he relayed the message, pointing at Neal, then the house, shivering all the while. Emma glanced up at Neal, her brow knit questioningly.

He gave a little shrug, and nodded. Emma blinked in surprise; she touched Henry's shoulder and said something, nodding toward the house, before turning back to Neal, staring at him in wonder.

Neal blew out a breath as she started toward him, her hands spread in bewilderment.

"Neal—?"

"I know," he sighed.

"Henry told me—"

" _I know._ "

"But you —"

"Em," he said exasperatedly, taking her by the shoulders. "Look, you're not getting anywhere with these damn lights, just let me do it, okay?"

Emma knit her brow. "Are you sure?" she asked. "I thought you hated my Christmas lights."

"You're going to get electrocuted, in another five minutes," Neal told her. "I'm afraid to leave you alone with them, and Henry's tired, so…" He glanced over her head, looking at the half-decorated house , strung with tangled lights and frayed wires. "I'll take care of it."

Emma broke into a smile. "You will?"

Neal nodded tiredly.

She let out a delighted squeal, and threw her arms around his neck to kiss him. "I _love_ you, you're the best!"

"Yeah, well…"

"No, really—you're the best."

Neal glanced at Killian and Regina, who were regarding him with patronizing smiles. "You're right," he said to Emma. "I am. And you know something else?" He turned back, pointing a determined finger. "This is going to be the best goddamn Christmas ever. I'm talking _lights,_ I'm talking letters to Santa, fucking caroling— _snowmen._ We're going to do it all."

Emma stared at him at with wide eyes. "Neal," she said breathlessly. "I don't know what's happening to you, but I know I like it."

"Good." Neal took a deep breath. "All right, now, give me some room—I have some punk-ass lights to deal with."


End file.
